


you put something up my sleeve

by waferkya



Series: Please Just Walk With Me, Yeah? [2]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Tell me more about this boy prostitute you met,” Pau says, casually sipping his glass of freakishly expensive red wine.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	you put something up my sleeve

Pau comes home after midnight, the latest he’s been all week, and finds Juan Carlos already in bed, watching something on his iPad—probably Lost. He sighs, and Juan Carlos looks up.

“Hey there,” he says, and puts the tablet away on the nightstand as Pau kicks off his shoes and crawls on top of the bed until he’s at kissing distance.

“I haven’t seen you in fifteen hours,” he mumbles into the curve of Juan Carlos’ neck, moving up with tiny, soft kisses towards his mouth—his smile.

“Almost sixteen, actually,” Juan Carlos says, wrapping his arms around Pau’s shoulders and shifting his legs just so he can scoot a little closer, kneeling instead of leaning in on his hands. “But who’s counting, right?”

Pau hums and kisses him then, his teeth finding Juan Carlos’ bottom lip and tugging until it’s swollen and red—until Juan Carlos’ eyes flutter closed and his cheeks are flushed, his hips arching up. Pau pulls the blankets out of the way and runs his hands up Juan Carlos’ legs, trapped in his pajamas: the soft inside of his knees the firm muscles of his thighs the smooth cut of his hipbones. Juan Carlos is shaken with a shiver and he grabs at Pau’s curls.

“How bad was it today?” he asks, quiet and breathless, his lips moving right against the curve of Pau’s mouth, his head tilting back when he tries to kiss him. Pau rolls his thumb just under the hardening weight of his cock and Juan Carlos hisses, doesn’t pull back anymore when he tries to lick his way into his mouth.

“Not too bad,” Pau tells him then, and it takes Juan Carlos a moment to remember what he’d asked. “We’re almost done with the Opera House, maybe another day or two.”

“Hm,” Juan Carlos says, his fingers threading gently through Pau’s hair as Pau shrugs off his jacket, starts unbuttoning his shirt, kisses him again. “You think you’re gonna get it?”

Pau grins into his neck, says “Of course,” and Juan Carlos laughs and then that sound shatters into a gasp because Pau’s hand is inside his boxer shorts, around his cock, gently tugging it free from the fabric.

He sighs, his hips snap up, but Pau’s hand is just there, barely moving, a teasing touch that would make Juan Carlos very desperate, if he hadn’t spent the last three hours waiting for this. He feels good now, amazing even, wrapped in Pau’s warmth, his presence, on their bed in their home—Juan Carlos is content. Still, the promise of sex makes him stir. Juan Carlos tips his head to the side, baring the tender skin of his neck, and just minutely rocks his hips, rubbing himself up against Pau’s grip.

“I saw Marc, he—gave me that, _uhn_ , the ta— _ah_ —tax thing you needed,” Juan Carlos says; Pau hums, his mouth is somewhere behind Juan Carlos’ ear.

“Thank you,” he says, shifting to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I forgot about that.”

His hand moves faster and sharper for a moment, teasing the wet head of Juan Carlos’ cock—his other hand flying up under Juan Carlos’ shirt, thumb locking around the hard tip of a nipple.

Juan Carlos laughs, his head tilted back, the fan of his eyelashes brushing his cheeks.

“I know. I also—” Pau rubs that spot that makes him shudder and gasp and whine, “ _Fuck_. I met someone there.”

Pau’s head shoots up. “Someone?”

Juan Carlos sinks a little further down against the heap of pillows behind his back, until he can wrap his thighs around Pau’s waist, push himself against his lap. He nods, and Pau’s fingers are now firmly gripping the upper half of his cock, his other hand pinning Juan Carlos’ hips to the mattress.

“This—this kid,” Juan Carlos mumbles, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue—he knows Pau won’t miss that. He thinks of an impish smile and a mop of black hair and Ricky’s lean fingers sticky with ice cream. “Some guys wanted to beat h— _fuck_ , Pau, yes, like that—and I gave him a ride and he—we— _please_ ,” he closes his eyes and arches up off the bed and he really, really just wants to come, but Pau looks pointedly interested.

“Go on, Juanqui, please.”

Juan Carlos bites his lip and whines at the pet name. “We had ice cream. He said he’s a—a— _ah_ —a whore, high end of course,” he grins when Pau’s eyebrows shoot up and disappear in the mess of brown curls on his forehead. “And he—he was—I _liked_ him.”

Pau stops touching him entirely; Juan Carlos makes a rough rumbling sound from the back of his throat, but Pau just leans in, brushing his lips against his as he asks, “Did you fuck him?” Juan Carlos shakes his head. Pau asks, “Did you want to?”

Juan Carlos cups Pau’s face—thinks of the sweet ring of Ricky’s laugh, the sharp angle of his hipbones, the way his hair would curls around the tips—and says, “Yes.” His voice is soft and quiet and he likes how Pau presses his lips together in a tight, jealous line. His cock is hard and neglected and leaking as Juan Carlos sighs, like a secret, under his breath but clear like a gong, “And I would have done it, if you were there. If you wanted to watch.”

Pau looks very breathless, very speechless, very hopeless as the idea twists and turns in his head—he doesn’t know what Ricky looks like, doesn’t know what sounds he’d make and how he would look, how he has looked at Juan Carlos, he doesn’t know anything, he’s just _thinking_ — and Juan Carlos grins.

Then Pau snaps out of it, and he sits back up on his heels with a sharp, determined look in his eyes that have turned one or two or twenty shades too dark.

He grabs Juan Carlos by the calves and pulls him all the way down on the mattress, which earns him a grunt that’s not at all displeased; he lifts Juan Carlos’ hips as far up as they’ll go, and presses a firm kiss to the underside of his cock—his tight balls—the paper-thin skin behind that—and he shifts ever further back and Juan Carlos turns red and hides his face behind his hands because he doesn’t like this he doesn’t he doesn’t he—

The first swipe of Pau’s tongue inside him is enough to make him come undone.

 

Pau walks into the kitchen still rubbing sleep away from his eyes, but the sweet scent of fresh coffee is enough to tug him back into the land of the living a little more. Then he sees Juan Carlos fiddling at the stove, already dressed for court, and his lips curl up in a smile.

“’morning,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around him and kissing the top of his head. Juan Carlos shifts against him and tips his head back for a proper kiss. “You got up early.”

“Early hearing,” he says, and he nuzzles the corner of Pau’s jaw for another moment before turning to the kitchen counter and start shoving sugar into his giant mug of coffee. Pau takes a step back, his hands fitting around Juan Carlos’ hips. “Marc’s thing is on the table.”

Pau doesn’t even turn around to look, but he hums and ducks his head to plant a kiss on the nape of Juan Carlos’ neck.

“Pau—”

“No, I know,” he mumbles, his eyes closed. “I just really, really like you.”

Juan Carlos chuckles. “You must be kidding,” he says, tipping his head back and looking up at him. Pau takes his chance to steal an upside-down kiss, and then another and another and another, even though it’s not exactly the most comfortable position, and then they just sort of look at each other. Pau really, really wants to throw Juan Carlos over his shoulder and carry him back upstairs to the bedroom, but they both have to go to work at some point.

He sighs. Juan Carlos asks, softly, “I’ll see you tonight?” and there’s something to his voice that made it sound like a promise.

Pau tugs at his earlobe.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” he decides. “It’s been a while.”

Juan Carlos laughs. “It’s been like, three days.”

Pau thinks of the sushi bar they went to the other night—and he thinks of Juan Carlos fighting with the chopsticks and hopelessly losing, and he thinks of the way he’d taken to eat with his hands—he thinks of how, when he’d fed him that piece of salmon sushi, Juan Carlos had wrapped his tongue around his fingers for a moment. He smiles. “No, I mean proper dinner, at a proper restaurant.”

“Ah, so it’s all a plot to make me dress up.”

Pau grins. “Guilty as charged, your honor.”

Juan Carlos tugs him down by his shirt and before kissing him wet and open he says, “Don’t get me started with roleplay, you.”

 

There’s a knock on the clouded-up shower glass and Pau nearly jumps out of his skin before the door slides open and Juan Carlos steps in, squirming past him to get under the hot water spray.

“Sorry, I’m freezing,” he mumbles, running his hands up and down his arms and spinning in a circle. Pau laughs and cups his face as soon as he can, kissing him lightly on the lips and then rubbing his nose against Juan Carlos’ cold one.

“Shit, did we move to Siberia and I didn’t notice?” he asks, tugging him closer; his cock brushes against Juan Carlos’ hip and he’s not even hard, but it still sends an electric shiver up his back.

“Probably, yeah,” sighs Juan Carlos, and then he’s licking at the water running down Pau’s neck and Pau thinks, _oh, okay_. “Temperature just dropped down, dunno what happened.”

His fingers are now tracing random patterns up and down the flat expanse of Pau’s stomach, and suddenly, nobody cares about the weather anymore—Pau crowds Juan Carlos back and against the wall, which is wet and slick and warm from the running shower.

Juan Carlos’ head falls back a little, water drops raining down his face—his neck—his chest—the sharp cut of his hips—like tears. Pau sucks a red mark on the corner of his collar bone.

“Do we really have to go to dinner?” Juan Carlos asks, his voice chipping into a soft moan; he presses his palm against the smooth skin of Pau’s cock, stroking up, and feels it grow harder in his hand.

“We have plenty of time,” Pau half-growls into his neck.

“No,” Juan Carlos says, wrapping his free hand around the back of Pau’s neck and tugging his head back a little. “I mean.”

Pau looks at him for a moment—wet all over, his cheeks flushed, his eyes blown wide and dark, his lips pink and just begging to be bitten—and understands; _you could be fucking me all night, and then again tomorrow, perhaps we won’t get out of bed until Monday morning, you could, we could_ , is what Juan Carlos means. Is what Juan Carlos _wants_. Pau can barely keep his footing, his head swimming with the thought.

He breathes in—and out—and in—and out. He’s very calm, eventually, when he kisses Juan Carlos.

“We can go to dinner and still have time for that,” he whispers on his lips. Juan Carlos sighs and gives him a small nod.

“But you’re buying.”

“Of course.”

“Fine, all right,” Juan Carlos says. But then he drops down on his knees, and they barely make it to the restaurant on time.

 

“Tell me more about this boy prostitute you met,” Pau says, casually sipping his glass of freakishly expensive red wine.

Juan Carlos blushes. “Are you serious?”

Pau shrugs. Damn him and damn that suit jacket that makes his shoulders look like _that_ —but Juan Carlos knows every single line of Pau’s body well enough to know this is not a sartorial miracle at all—and damn the wine and the fantastic steak and the breathtaking view of the city and the sea they have from the glass-wall right next to their table.

Juan Carlos rubs his chin with a hand.

“I already told you everything relevant,” he mumbles; Pau smiles and, under the table, lightly taps his foot against his ankle.

“You didn’t tell me why you liked him.”

“ _He_ likes Austin Powers,” he says, with a pointed look and half a smile. Pau rolls his eyes.

“So it was his utter lack of taste that got you interested,” he says. Juan Carlos’ smile turns to a full-blown grin.

“What can I say, I have a type. I’m here with you, after all.”

“Ex _cuse_ you,” Pau says, wide-eyed and mockingly outraged. “My taste is flawless, thank you very much.”

Juan Carlos gives in to a fit of coughs that sound a little too much like _Rafa Nadal_ , Pau tries to kick him under the table, they almost knock off the wine bottle and when the elderly couple sitting at the next table give them a stern look, they end up giggling helplessly for a good five minutes, because every time their eyes meet, they start laughing all over again.

“Okay, fine,” Pau says, biting his lips and stabbing his salad a little. “How’s work, then?”

Juan Carlos pouts. “I’m at a dead end if I’ve ever seen one.”

“The Senator with the crimelord ambitions, right?”

“Yeah. If I go insane over this thing, please feel free to blame Berni, he’s—he’s so obsessed over this thing he’s not seeing straight. He’s—what’s the opposite of rock solid? Please don’t say liquid.”

Pau grins. “I don’t know. Unsound?”

“Unsound, yes. His case is the most volatile thing ever—oh, yes, the guy is guilty, a blind fucking man could see that, but evidence? Berni’s got none and he still wants to go after him. Which would be pretty hard in any other circumstance, and in this case, it’s practically science-fiction.”

“What would Captain Kirk do then?”

Juan Carlos does laugh at that. “I dunno. Probably pull a V for Vendetta on us all, and blow up the Parliament.”

Pau smiles, and they eat in silence for a while, until he says, very quietly, “Unless.”

Juan Carlos looks up from his almost finished steak. “Unless?”

“Unless you frame him.”

Juan Carlos blinks, tilting his head to the side. “I’m not much of a fan of planting evidence, you know.”

“No, I don’t mean that, of course,” Pau says, rolling his eyes. “Just, _create_ the evidence you need.”

“How is that different from planting it?”

“It would be real. Just, orchestrated.”

“You mean like with an undercover agent,” Juan Carlos says, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Pau, you’ve been watching too much TV—and if _I_ ’m saying that, well.”

“Why not, though?”

“He’s a politician, not some gang leader. What would we be infiltrating, his staff?” Juan Carlos shakes his head. “It’d take too long.”

“A-ha,” says Pau, flatly. “If only you knew a male prostitute to send his way with a wire and catch him merrily red-handed.”

Juan Carlos freezes with his fork mid-air, his mouth hanging open. He sits back, blinking slowly, his shoulders sagging down. “You’re kidding.”

“Am not.”

“That’s an insane plan.”

Pau smiles. “You like it, babe, don’t even try to deny it.”

_Fuck_ , Juan Carlos thinks. He likes it.

 

“Okay,” Juan Carlos gasps, his toes curling into the blankets—soaked with the water he had on his body from the shower first, and then his sweat—his back arching up and away—“Okay, yes, I’ll ask him, just—just—God Pau I—please—”

Pau kisses his inner thigh, rubbing his beard against the tender skin a little, and curls three fingers inside him. Juan Carlos _hmpf_ s loudly, clenching around him like it’s the first time.

 

He finds him, unsurprisingly, through Facebook.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, staring unblinkingly at the profile on the screen.

_Ricky Rubio_  
 _lives in Barcelona_  
 _boss at Kevin Love’s pants_  
 _from El Masnou_

Shit, he’d hoped he wouldn’t be able to find him. All he knew was a name and a, uh, profession, which obviously the kid wouldn’t have advertised all over the Internet, but there he is, and Juan Carlos is way too good at this—not stalking people, just _being smart_. Yes, that one. He went to the fan-page of the club where they first met, browsed through some of the pictures from various events, and when he didn’t find his wide-eyed friend with the five-thousand-watts-smile he thought, _well, I did what I had to_.

But the thing is, this morning Pau kissed him goodbye and specifically told him to do _everything he could_ to find this kid. And Pau is a sneaky bastard, he always knows it when Juan Carlos is lying. So he couldn’t just let it go like that, he had to at least give it another try—so he pulled up the list of fans of the page, and searched for Ricky.

And there he goes.

_Ricky Rubio_  
 _lives in Barcelona_  
 _boss at Kevin Love’s pants_  
 _from El Masnou_

Juan Carlos cups his hands around his mouth and growls, “Oh, _fuck_.”

Ricky stares back at him from his profile picture—he’s smiling like the five-year-old idiot that he is, pointing at a snowman that’s wearing his coat and his cap and his sunglasses, and he must be fucking freezing in that Rolling Stones sweater and fingerless gloves and barely a hint of beard on his face. Juan Carlos does not, definitely, want to wrap him in a blanket and feed him hot chocolate for the rest of his days. He doesn’t. Really.

He doesn’t think about friending him, either, but goes straight for the _Send Ricky a message_ button. Really.

> **Juan Carlos Navarro**  
>  Hey, Ricky. I sincerely hope you did not run into any other pack of narrow-minded straight guys who just can’t appreciate the perks of orgies.  
>  Could I interest you in meeting up for a coffee? Or ice cream, though seasons seem to have started running backwards since we met.  
>  (In case you don’t remember me, crikey, I’ve lost my mojo.)

 

When he gets home, there’s a new friendship request waiting for him, and Ricky’s answer is sitting in his inbox.

> **Ricky Rubio**  
>  Juankiiiiiiii :DDDDD  
>  Navarro is a great surname for you wow, fuck you is there anything wrong with you at all?  
>  Also congrats on the boyfriend or rather, congrats *to* the boyfriend. I might wanna kill him in his sleep tho so don’t ever tell me where you live  
>  Hot chocolate @ La Pallaresa, Wednesday 6:00PM? I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy--point is, I can get us a table  
>  <3  
>  Ps-where do you live? :D

Juan Carlos stares at the screen for the second time today; apparently, it’s becoming an habit. Pau, a mug of tea in one hand and a book in the other, peers over his shoulder and laughs, though it sounds a bit strained.

“He’s funny,” he says, and kisses the top of Juan Carlos’ ear. “I’ll double-check the doors, just in case.”

Juan Carlos chuckles and kisses the corner of his mouth, looking up at him _like that_ , which is the closest he comes to saying I love you when he’s not half asleep or burning up with want or drunk or particularly sad. Pau blushes a little.

“Love you too,” he says, and then slips away quietly.

Juan Carlos goes back to staring at the message. He starts typing his reply, and almost asks who the hell is Kevin Love—thrice—but luckily enough, he always deletes that bit.

> **Juan Carlos Navarro**  
>  Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you then.  
>  (What makes you think I have a boyfriend?)

He has half a mind to get up and go to bed, when the computer chirps delightfully. Ricky is online and has answered already.

> **Ricky Rubio**  
>  Friend me baaaaaaack

Juan Carlos does. A chat notification starts blinking in the lower right corner of the screen.

**Ricky:** hey  
 **Ricky:** we have A DATE is the sentence you know  
 **Juan Carlos:** Of course we have a date, we’ve had dates ever since the dawn of times.  
 **Ricky:** …  
 **Ricky:** u r funny  <3  
 **Juan Carlos:** And you are not five, there’s no need to type like that.  
 **Ricky:** lk wha ?  
 **Ricky:** u MeAn LiKe DiS mAyBe?? :DDD  
 **Juan Carlos:** I seriously hope you used a script to do that.  
 **Ricky:** lol where would the fun be using a script  
 **Juan Carlos:** I can’t see the fun in doing it manually either  
 **Ricky:** ...do you even realize what you just wrote  
 **Ricky:** i mean i’m trying to be on my best behavior here since you’re married and all but  
 **Ricky:** seriously juanki HOW CAN I NOT MAKE THAT PUN NOW  
 **Juan Carlos:** I never asked you not to.

(On the other side of Barcelona, Ricky sits cross-legged on Kevin’s couch, bites his bottom lip so hard it actually hurts a lot and whispers to the empty room, “Fuck.”

He’s always had a thing for the dramatics, Ricky.)

**Juan Carlos:** And anyway, I’ll ask again: what makes you so sure I have a boyfriend?  
 **Ricky:** dude, have you seen your profile pic?  
 **Ricky:** that’s subtle like a headbutt to the mouth, basically

Juan Carlos navigates back to his own profile page.

He feels his cheeks burning up.

**Juan Carlos:** That’s Marc.  
 **Juan Carlos:** My boyfriend’s brother.  
 **Ricky:** …  
 **Ricky:** LMAO  
 **Ricky:** sorry? nah k i’m not sorry  
 **Ricky:** he totes wants into ur pants, trust the pro on this juanki  
 **Ricky:** btw here take my number

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where all that sex came from so don't ask. [This is the picture](http://distilleryimage3.s3.amazonaws.com/1264663e755411e29a3e22000a1f90ce_7.jpg) from Ricky's profile. He's a giant dork. Oh god. I love this thing and I'm still not sorry.


End file.
